At Any Moment
by everybreatheverymove
Summary: A series of unrelated oneshots set in different universes, with different scenarios. In one world, they're flirty neighbours while in another they're trained murderers. Please R&R! Rated T/M.


**I know, I should probably spend more time writing for stories I've already got on the go, but sometimes I get an idea and have to write it before it just vanishes from my memory, so that's kind of going to be the whole purpose of this series.**

**No chapters will be linked, since they're all going to be set in different universes and I will try my best to make sure they're entertaining, and each different from the other, and enjoyable for you!**

**Tell me what you think, review please (if it's constructive and not just crap)! And I hope you have fun reading this whole new view on J/A! :)**

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><p><span>Alternate Universe 1<span>

* * *

><p>"Who did you kill this time, honey?"<p>

It's a late Friday night. They're eating dinner a few hours later than they usually do, mainly because he came home a little more blood-splattered than he usually does and she had to clean him up.

"Nobody you need to worry about." Her husband informs her, eyes staring at the rim of his wine glass as she stands to cut the roast chicken.

The redhead woman fakes a smile, whips a knife out from below her pocketed apron, "Should the United States Government be worried, then?"

He grabs his glass, lifts both brows with a sigh as he finally glances up at her. "Not anymore." He watches as she stabs the chicken before running her hand down its length in a repetitive motion, slicing pieces off.

April Kepner shakes her head, bouncy ponytail swinging in the air, thin neck breathing heavily.

"That was a lot of blood for one person." She tells him, tilts her head to one side and closes her eyes as she stills her hand, moves the other to her hip. "I could have helped."

Jackson Avery glares, blinks once, twice, with a frown before he finally moves, stands up and joins her by the side of the dinner table.

They married for work, not pleasure. There was no love involved, no desire, at least not the kind that spouses should feel.

They kill people for a living. They're spies, killers, anything of the same sort that doesn't involve the word assassin.

He works for one agency, she for another. They don't team up, they don't mix business with privacy. Or, at least, they shouldn't. But they do. They overlap sometimes. They lend a hand.

Their bosses struck a deal to work side by side without the authorities knowing, without putting innocent people's lives in jeopardy.

Three years ago, April Kepner was Amber Johnson. Three years ago, Jackson Avery was Jake Webster.

They're fake, false down to their roots, pasts buried deep beneath them.

She dropped her jeans and and adopted short dresses, skirts, neatly ironed blouses and cardigans. She dyed her hair red, learnt how to beautify herself, listened when told that she needed to be more alluring to the male eye.

He swapped skin for muscle, shoved his sneaker collection into a far away closet in exchange for the wardrobe of a hitman. He shaves his head, lets some light stubble cover his jaw and chin and the sides of his face because it makes him more attractive to women.

Their voices change. She swaps her perky, sometimes nasal, tone for a quieter one. She smiles when she talks now, bats her eyelashes when she wants something. He trades his casual, twenty-something regular-guy tone for a huskier, calmer volume. He breathes, sighs a lot, blinks when he needs her and licks his lips when he wants her.

They are one hundred percent falsified replicas of themselves.

Her parents are dead, he's a foster kid. They never get asked about their elders again. She was once a Christian, he once refused to believe in anything other than what he could see, feel. Death found them both. They were selected, chosen and trained. It was easier to marry each other than live a complete life of betrayal. At least there's no collateral damage this way.

They give off the impression of being perfect suburban neighbours. They live the American Dream.

He owns an groundbreaking technology company while she works at an impressive law firm. In truth, the buildings are real, set up by their actual agencies.

They own an oversized faded yellow house in a cul-de-sac with a white picket fence and grass as green as healthy grass should be. They have a dog named Hunter, because he rebuffed the name Fluffy and she refused to name it Killer.

They show off on the weekends; he mows the lawn and she brings him some of her infamous homemade Long Island Iced Tea.

They share a bed, and a bathroom. His toothbrush is blue, hers is pink. They're married, after all. When she wears red, he wears black. They scrub up well each and every single day.

They kiss when exposed in public, laugh when they're out with people they use as friends, as alibis. They have sex, because marriage required that she finally spread her legs and apparently it's a basic human necessity.

She's good in bed, better than he expects her to be for a former virgin. She fucks him nine times a week, give or take, and the windows stay open because it's important to keep up appearances. Her nails tend to mark his skin and he sometimes bites her lips, neck, body, just in case anybody ever notices. Deep down, she is his.

He gushes, she blushes when a neighbour points out their very loud love-making. His arm goes around her shoulders and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. He knows what he did last night to make her scream and he's proud. He ate her out twice, she came three times. The neighbours are jealous.

They avoid the topic of having children. It's not a good environment for a child and they dance around the question whenever it comes up, whenever a nosy little somebody wants to know a little bit too much.

They go grocery shopping. He cooks medium-raw steaks on the barbecue and she makes an accompanying Ambrosia salad while gossiping with the other women in the neighbourhood.

They go out to dinner. He orders a little bit too much wine, she wears a nice dress to please him. They go to museums and art gallery openings. They attend galas. They socialise, they smile and chuckle and fawn when they have to. They fake it.

He buys her expensive jewellery, sometimes for no reason at all. Diamonds are supposedly a girl's best friend and she makes the other women jealous when she shows off her brand new necklace. Though her Harry Winston engagement ring is still the crowd's favourite.

For his birthday, she buys him a new Rolex or front-row tickets to a basketball game. He smirks, kisses her, invites one of the guys from 'work'.

She bakes him a cake, coats it with vanilla buttercream frosting, lets him eat the leftover topping off of her body later that night. She blows him twice, once in the morning, once before sex, before she lets him do whatever he wants to her.

He talks sports with the other men in the area when they cross paths. She stares at him through the kitchen window, waves when he points her out. She's the perfect wife. He's the loving husband every goddamn woman dreams of.

They act differently when people are watching. They're more loving, caring, attentive. He always looks at her like he worships the ground she walks on. She stares up at him like he's a reincarnated God, like he's her new religion.

They're liars.

"You know I don't like it when you get involved." He breathes, stopping behind her and moving one hand to her hip while the other covers her hand holding the carving knife, long fingers wrapping around her wrist.

April doesn't shift her eyes away from the plate, only takes a deep breath when he lowers her dangerous hand down and pries the knife from her grip.

She feels his hand on right her hip move to the outside of her thigh, slipping past the kitchen apron and short floral dress covering her body.

He's protective of her, much like an honest husband but less than he probably should be.

"Because you think I'm incompetent."

Jackson closes his eyes, drops his head to the base of her skull, breath hot against her pale skin. "Because you enjoy it too much."

"Does that frighten you?" She whispers, licks her lips slowly and drops her gaze to his hand creeping along the inside of her thigh, the material of her apron scrunched up below her hip.

He doesn't respond at first, only lets his lips linger across her skin, runs his dark hands over her body, marking her soul again. His hand on her thigh drops after a moment and he grips the sides of her waist to spin her around, push her roughly up against the side of the oak table.

Her hands fly behind her, steadily leaning back against the edge of the dining table, chest panting.

Jackson leans closer, moves a hand to cup the side of her neck in the palm of his hand, thumb pressed below her ear, lips moving against her flesh with a breath. "Nothing frightens me." He tells her honestly, lets his mouth drift along her neck until he reaches her collarbone. He kisses her there, moves his left hand down to her leg again.

She catches on, lifts her leg up by his side for him to grasp her frame and pull her up to sit on the dining table, small hands shifting salt and pepper shakers to the side and China plates to the floor.

"What if I kill you?"

The question stills him, hands to her sides and head against hers. April was entirely capable of killing him.

She could murder him while he slept. She could chop him up, boil him, toss him away with the garbage.

She could make it look like an accident. She could push, shove him down the stairs and beat the crap out of him as he lies unconscious. She could shoot him with a gun she'll pretend she bought for protection; she'll lie, say it was self defence. She could castrate him, ruin his life, his reputation. She could blind him, poison him, feed him to the hounds and move on with her life.

But he could do the same to her.

"I'd have to kill you first." He smirks, harshly runs his hands up her thighs to gather the material of her dress up by her waist.

She tightens, doesn't flinch, doesn't move an inch as he reaches for the tops of her stockings. She feels a weight lift from her side, seeing him pull her concealed weapon out from under the thin elastic.

"Really? At the dinner table?" His green eyes squint, his lips pursed. He tosses the gun aside after disabling it, resuming his position between her legs.

She shrugs, lifts a brow and chews the inside of her cheek. She waits until he goes to kiss her to reach for his pants, slipping her hand down the front.

"That's all me, sweetheart." He states proudly, teeth grazing the skin of her jaw as she groans, pulls her hand away from his trousers. "But you should already know that."

"Maybe I need reminding."

"Is that an invitation?"

She goes to nod until she hears the faint sound of her beeper ringing, the distant object pulling her attention away from his face.

Jackson quickly lets go of her, watches as she hops down from the table and pulls herself together, shuffling in her dress comfortably. She tightens her ponytail before slipping past him and up the stairs.

Before he can talk, his pager beeps as well. He makes his way into the hallway to check the target.

Grand Inn Hotel. Room 206. Twenty minutes. 20 000.

Jackson sighs, tilts his head from side to side to stretch out his muscles, crack his knuckles with extended arms.

He doesn't wait for her to come back down the stairs before he slides his wedding band into his pocket. He slips into the living room briefly to push her favourite painting aside, quickly tap the code to his safe in before she catches him.

He retrieves his car keys and second phone, tossing the pager down on the hidden shelf but sealing it back up, typing in the lock and moving her oil painting into place.

April walks down the stairs as he makes his way to the front door, "You got one too?" She folds her arms over her chest as she reaches the bottom step, swaying back and forth on her heels. She reaches for her long jacket from the rail, pushing the red mac coat over her black lingerie. Her breasts are ripe to his touch and he swallows a breath. She's still his wife, after all.

"Yeah." He voices quietly, watching as she pulls her hair to one side and clips it into place, applying a final touch of lipstick onto her lips slowly while staring up at him.

She doesn't do what he always fears she might one day be dragged into. She's smarter, stronger than that.

Her red hair and pert lips, contrasting pale skin to her dark underclothes are distractions. Divert the attention. Snap the neck. Break the bones. Kill.

She's well trained. She's April Kepner.

April bats long lashes for a moment, nostrils flared when he slips outside just as she fastens her coat. "Don't get killed."

"I thought you'd like that." He grins to himself, not even turning around to face her.

"You know what I mean." She sighs.

He's still her husband after all.

* * *

><p>Hotel security is slacker than he first thinks it is.<p>

There's one guard by the target's door, one guy he has to silently shoot and hold down while he waits for the agony to pass before he can shove him into a storage closet.

Jackson slips the stolen keycard from his pocket swiftly, sliding it down the lock and waiting for the light to turn green before he tries the handle.

Once inside the room, he quietly closes the door, taking in his surroundings.

King size bed. Flatscreen television. Flowers on the glass table. Chocolates on the bed pillows.

The targets are usually people in high places. Senators, politicians, foreign officials. They usually have a dark past, a time spent in the shade that they're probably not as ashamed of as they should be.

After a moment, he takes steady steps forward toward the living area.

Hearing the shower run in the background, he picks up the television remote before flicking it on, landing on some cooking channel show.

He stays there for a moment, allows himself to get comfortable on the target's couch of the week. He kicks his feet up, enables his gun before folding his arms, tucking the revolver safely beneath his pit, barrel pointing in direction of the shower door.

He continues to watch the man preparing spinach pastries on the television until he hears the water shut off, the bathroom door kicking open a few moment later.

"Can I help you?"

There's a male's voice coming from behind him and he smiles, to himself, never turning to face the intended victim. "Yeah?"

The man approaches him but keeps his distance, hands to his hips, keeping his bathrobe in place. "Who the hell are you?!" No reply. "Hello! Who are yo-"

It takes the smallest fraction of a second for Jackson to fire, shoot him blank right there.

"Nobody you need to worry about."

* * *

><p>She doesn't like doing this.<p>

She doesn't like touching people, strangers, with her hands. She dislikes them touching her even more. She doesn't like giving them the pleasure of having the print of her flesh felt alongside their own.

"You like that?" She grits her teeth, fakes a naughty smile, cries inside behind dark eyes.

She tries her best to hold back a shudder when the man rests a hand on her ass, smacking her flesh, clearly enjoying himself.

She's ashamed about certain parts of her profession, the ones where she has to entice, seduce, trick foolish men who can't get any anywhere else. Not that they'd ever get anywhere with her anyway.

April was religious once, she had values, values she still holds dear for the most part.

Sex is for marriage. Sex is between a man and his wife. Sex is between consenting spouses.

Her husband is allowed to touch her, kiss her. Her husband is allowed to mark, brand her skin the way she wants him to. Her husband is allowed to do whatever she lets him.

He can bite her lip, and occupy her mouth, tongue, mind. He can touch her, feel her as he pleases, where he wishes.

He can smack, spank her ass if he wants to, if she wants him to.

He can lick, suck, eat her if she asks him to, if he begs her with her eyes.

He's allowed the vulnerable side of her, the side that waited for him. He's been promised her everything, breasts, heart and everything below the waist.

He's allowed to nibble her skin. He's permitted to spread her legs, slip inside, dry her out. He can mark her, dent her skin as much as he wants.

He can trace every freckly over her skin. He can move his dark skin over her creamy one as much, where he wants. He can own her, fuck her, make love to her. He can have her.

He's her husband.

But this? This is not what she believes in.

She holds back another nauseating gag when he taps her shoulder. Her shoulders are sensitive to touch, to Jackson's touch.

Three.

He's a bad man, a horrible, despicable person.

She blinks once with blank eyes as he stands in front of her, smug look on his face as he ponders what to do with her as though she'll give him the chance.

"You've been bad, haven't you?"

He nods eagerly, not catching her drift.

Two.

"Do you know what I do to bad people?"

The blonde man shakes his head, eyes widening as she stands up, hands behind her back.

One.

"I kill them."

"Wh-"

April pulls a sharpened blade out from the hem of her sheer top, quickly dragging it across his throat and holding her hand against his carotid to hold in some of the bleeding.

Once his eyes fail and his pulse stops, she lays him down against the floor, dragging the rug across the floor with ease.

She shuffles him onto the purple rug, making sure the side of his neck is pressed deeply into the wooly surface.

"Bitch." She mumbles to herself, making her way into the bathroom to wash her hands before she makes her escape.

* * *

><p>April apparently makes it back home before he does<p>

He's nowhere in sight when she slips up the stairs and into their dressing room.

She pulls her closet door across, revealing a large selection of clothing and underwear. She reaches for her nightgown when she hears the front door close, footsteps climbing up at the stairs until the person reaches the same ground as her.

"April?"

"I'm here." She breathes out, closing her eyes in relief when Jackson appears in front of her, hands in his trouser pockets and a pondering look on his face.

He frowns, brows creased, lips curled up pensively, "How did your thing go?"

The redhead takes a deep breath, holds back the bile lingering in her throat, "I did my job."

"Good." He nods to himself, sits himself down on the chair in the middle of the room. His elbows press into his knees, his face dropping to his hands.

She places her nightie down against her dresser before she nears him, her small fingers gently prying his hands away from his face.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." He glances up at her, eyes darker than their usual vivid green colour and lips dry.

It's not nothing. It's her. The thought of her doing what she was doing, or almost doing, had been making him overly nauseous lately.

He licks his lips, flicks his gaze down to her own, down at her outfit. The lacy teddy covering her body doesn't do much to hide her modesty, nor do the garters keeping her stockings held up by her panties.

She shifts, drops open palms to his shoulders. The material stops just at the top of her thighs, barely hiding the lace string hidden underneath, and the top runs down her cleavage, creating a low dip between her breasts while simultaneously lifting them into view.

She feels his eyes stare her up and down repeatedly, his hands moving to her backside, tightening his grip the more time goes by.

April bites her lower lip, stepping closer between his legs, trailing her fingertips down his shoulders to his stomach, scrunching the cotton of his shirt up in her fist. She drags it upward, lets him do the rest and slip it over his head with ease, before she finally straddles his lap.

Her palms press flat against the back of the chair, and she swallows in a sharp intake of air when he leans forward to kiss her.

But instead of touching her lips full on, he drags his breath across her mouth, brushes his nose against hers slowly while keeping his gaze focused solely on her chest.

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes." She nods, twitches in his lap and slides her thighs down comfortably beside his. She grinds into him, runs her hands down to his groin.

"Did he hurt you first?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters." Jackson explains, pulling up the bottom of her black teddy to her bust, making her lift her arms to slip it over her head.

She shivers from the cold, nipples perking up when they meet cool air, and she breathes heavily.

"It matters to me because I don't like it when other people touch you." He's possessive, territorial. "I don't like thinking about some guy running his hands along your sides like this." He whispers and does as he says, tracing his hands up to the outsides of her breasts, partially ignoring her interruption. "I know they don't fuck you, April. I just don't like my wife being bait."

"I'm my own bait, you know." She frowns, leans down to rest her forehead against the top of his head, red hair falling by the side of her face.

"You're also my wife." He repeats the word, flicking his eyes up back to hers daringly. "Don't you like it when I touch you?"

"Only you, yes." She nods, closes her eyes when his right hand drops to her thighs, messing with the clasp of her garter.

"I would kill for you, April."

She pulls away from him to look into his eyes, cradling the sides of his face with her hands. He's truthful, more than he usually is, less than he probably should be.

The redheaded woman doesn't respond, she only finds his mouth, hurriedly slips her tongue past his teeth to find him. Her arms tighten, snake around his neck as he moves to stand up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his torso.

Her back hits the wall after a short minute, her shoulder-blades frozen against the cold surface of the shower.

Jackson leaves her stood alone in the shower for a second, half naked and half vulnerable to remove her stockings, while he takes his shoes and socks and pants off, tossing them aside quickly before he rejoins her.

He cradles her in against the shower wall, turning on the hot tap as she slips her hands down the back of his tight briefs to pull them down his legs. He kicks them off loosely before he grasps her hips rough within his hands.

He tucks his thumbs down the sides of her skimpy lace panties, pulling them and the following garter down her legs, not even entirely below her calves before he picks her up again.

She lifts her left leg higher by his side and turns her knee towards the adjacent wall, pushing into him heatedly as she leans back against the wet shower wall.

Her hands fly to grip his broad shoulders when he leans down to capture her lips, nibbling at her pink flesh and his lower body grinding against hers.

She moans, sobs when she feels a burning need between her legs, one he isn't quite satisfying just yet.

"You-" April shakes her head, manages to pull her lips away from his own. He tries to find them against until she talks, holds him out and away from her. "Please."

"What do you need me to do?" He smirks, the same green-eyed million-dollar grin he always used when he was going to give her what she wanted. His eyes sparkle and he shifts away from her when she doesn't reply.

She goes to protest until she watches him kneel down in front of her, hands running up her legs slowly, soaked tanned hands sticky against her damp flesh.

The cool air catches in her throat when he throws her leg over his shoulder, face disappearing between her legs, hot breath against her warm centre, tongue lapping at her sensitive core.

"Fuck." She mutters through her teeth, biting down on her bottom lip, almost deeply enough to draw blood.

He doesn't move from his place for a good few minutes, instead continues to work her body, press his fingertips into her skin, push his tongue between her folds.

Her body starts to quiver after an eventual moment, when she feels like combustible and her hands are reaching out for him. "Jackson!"

Her green-eyed husband makes his way back up her body then, smile on his face as he kisses up her stomach, chest, neck, until he reaches her mouth and she tastes herself against his lips.

Without earning, she reaches down between them to grasp his length, pull him between her legs carefully, slide herself down onto his shaft.

Her hazel eyes shut tight, fingertips pressed against his pelvis for rhythm.

She bounces against him, breasts sliding smoothly against his soaking wet chest as she moves, up and down, back scraping the shower tiles. She tosses her head forward onto his shoulder, teeth digging into his skin.

He moves against her, thrust speed increasing every two seconds. He grunts, groans as he slams into her, curses aloud when she tightens around his cock and bites his shoulder.

Her cream flesh is humid against his own, her rosy cheeks and rose nipples burning his soul. She's intoxicating.

The love is growing and the desire is nearing that of man and wife.

They could easily kill each other.

She could stab him, hack him up into a million pieces. He could shoot her, bury her in the backyard.

They could end each other. They could be each other's death.

They could kill each other like this.


End file.
